


Walk with Me and be Safe

by simply_aly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, First Meetings, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:57:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simply_aly/pseuds/simply_aly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Bellamy is a werewolf and Clarke is a witch who gets lost in the forest on a full moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk with Me and be Safe

**Author's Note:**

> (Written for a prompt at the Bellarke Writer's Network on Tumblr.)

 

  
She’s only in the woods to collect herbs, leaves and other potions ingredients she’d rather not spend any more time thinking about. (Excrement is the worst, _do not_ bring up excrement.) And, perhaps it was a bad idea that her mother would have warned her against...if she’d bothered to ask. It’s a full moon tonight, Clarke finally notices, a little too late...since she’s already heard the howls.

Clarke’s warlock father always took the lead in her supernatural teachings—as her mom was more fond of spells and potions—and he spent quite a bit of time on werewolves, so it really makes her cringe that she hadn’t bothered to check the moon before leaving the cottage. Honestly, after reading journal after journal and dissertation after dissertation on the dangers of werewolves, she really should have it ingrained in her mind to be cautious of these things. And usually she is cautious, honestly. (The necklace she wears around her neck is really a hidden vial of holy water in case she runs into a vampire, so really, caution normally comes easy to her.)

However, Clarke is currently tiptoeing through a werewolf infested forest in the middle of the night with a basket full of ingredients for her healing potion experiments. She’s really starting to worry, too, because the howls aren’t getting quieter _or_ louder, so she’s pretty sure she’s being followed, which isn’t good. And she can’t see a thing because the moon is only nominally out and is pretty much hidden by a whole bunch of clouds Clarke is praying aren’t storm clouds, because she really can’t afford to be a _wet_ witch being chased by a werewolf.

Ill-advised choices, poor lighting, and worrisome weather conditions aside, Clarke’s panic quickly reaches it’s climax as she begins to run. Holding her closed basket tightly to her chest, her feet pick up their pace, paying no mind to twigs snapping underneath them. She’s not even sure if she’s heading in the right direction to get home, but if she can get out of this forest, she’ll be safe. (She hopes.)

She doesn’t pay attention to the loudening of the howls, nor does she see the yellow eyes follow her every move. All she’s concentrating on is moving one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. Panic is clearly a bad look for her, she realizes a few minuets later when she’s lying on the ground trying to scramble away from the gray werewolf growling loudly at her. Her basket lying open on the ground beside her and she had already realizes she’s well and truly lost.

This is not how Clarke thought she’d die. A spell gone wrong, sure; she’d always been rather reckless with her spells. Perhaps a potions accident, considering her tendency toward experimentation. She never really gave thought to the idea of being ripped to bloody pieces by a werewolf. And, it’s not like she can just cast a spell and get home, because that kind of thing leaves a trace—a trace other supernatural creatures can track fairly easily. If she did that right now, in front of the beast, he’d likely just smell the trace and lead himself right to her front door. (Not very helpful.)

 _Think, Clarke, think_ , she chastises herself as she tries rather desperately to remember the herbs her book, _The Witch’s and Warlock’s Guide to Surviving the Supernatural_ , listed as being toxic to werewolves. Unfortunately, the main one, aconite, is not in this forest (for obvious reasons) and is unavailable to her.

Seeing no other option, Clarke grabs for the largest stick she can reach and prepares to lunge at him. She’s sure she won’t be able to kill it—wood doesn’t do much to a werewolf, Clarke knows, except what it would do to any non-supernatural animal—but perhaps she’ll get luck and injure it a little.

Before she can attack, a second werewolf jumps out from behind a bush. The second werewolf, with fur so black it can barely be seen, doesn’t seem interested in attacking her, though. Rather he’s protecting her, shielding her body from the other wolf with his own. He snarls loudly, much more loudly than the first had been doing to her, and lunges for the gray wolf’s throat.

This ignites a fight and Clarke tries to get up and leave while they’re both distracted (before more wolves show up), but she thinks the fall twisted her ankle. All she can do is back up until she reaches a tree and watch the fight, sending up a prayer to the Goddess that the black wolf wins because at least she’ll have a chance then.

Finally, the gray werewolf falls to the ground and doesn’t stand back up. The black werewolf breathes deeply over the body for a minuet before limping over toward her. For an instant, Clarke thinks that maybe she was wrong. Maybe the black werewolf was just fighting to be the one to kill her. By this point, the wolf collapses beside her and lets out a pitiful whine.

Once again, Clarke should know better. Witches don’t get involved in other species’ problems. Secrecy is too important now to be risking world-wide exposure and likely witch-weaponization to fuel interspecies wars. Nevertheless, deep down, all Clarke has ever wanted was to help people and though he may not look it now, this werewolf is also a person and he is clearly injured. (From saving her; he was injured because he saved her.) So Clarke looks around in the darkness for her basket of herbs. _Of course_ , she thinks ironically, _nothing to kill a werewolf, but plenty to heal one._ Healing is generally universal, crossing species divisions, provided that poisonous ingredients are swapped accordingly.

Unfortunately, her basket had been caught in the fight as well and her whole reason for being in this mess in the first place is strewn all over the forest floor. So, deciding to make her third mistake of the evening, Clarke decides to risk being tracked (and, therefore exposure) and quietly whispers a spell. Instantly, a small ball of light appears above her hand. She keeps it dim as not to disturb the animals near them too much and grabs what she needs.

Limping back to the tree, she conjures a small cup of water and heats it with another whispered spell. Doing magic in the open like this is risky business, but the way she figures, she’s already caused enough damage that this couldn’t really decrease her chances of getting out of this alive. She adds the herbs she’s sure will do the trick and uses a stick to stir it until it’s ready. She then applies the salve gently against the wolf’s wounds.

“I know it’s crude and if I’d been at home, I could have done so much better, but I’m kinda stuck here right now and this is all I’ve got. It should help, though,” she speaks softly as she goes, her voice mingling with the heavy breaths of the injured werewolf.

When she’s done everything she can, Clarke leans against the tree and closes her eyes. She’s lost in the middle of a werewolf infested forest with a twisted ankle—there’s little else for her to do but wait for sun to rise. She doesn’t actually know the process by which werewolves revert to their human form, but she’s going to find out in a few hours. Or, more accurately, she would have found out if she’d stayed awake long enough to see. When Clarke next lies eyes on her furry rescuer, he’s no longer furry, and she can actually see him, because the sun is shining.

She’s not quite sure how werewolf transformations work, so either they transform with their clothes or he had bothered to go find some pants while she slept. (Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on perspective—he had forgotten to find a shirt.) Clarke groans and wipes at her face to clear away the sleepy fog she’s still operating under. She tries to avoid staring, but it’s rather hard given that he’s the only person around.

The now human werewolf grins and tilts his head. “I haven’t seen you in these woods before, Princess.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at the cheesy attempt at a pickup line. “That’s because I’ve never been here before. Heard about the wildlife in these parts and came to collect some things.”

“And, in that conversation, did you miss the part about wolves?” he asks sarcastically.

She opens her mouth to retort before deciding not to bother. “It slipped my mind,” she admits. “You should be grateful, though, I did save your life.”

“I wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t had to rescue a pretty blonde who shouldn’t have been wandering the forest on a full moon.” He sits down beside her and reaches for her injured ankle. Instinctively, Clarke jerks away, but realizing he means no harm, she allows the exploration. “And, that was a nice trick, by the way. I’m not quite sure how you did it. Name’s Bellamy by the way, Princess. Figure you should know since we saved each other’s lives and all.”

“ _My_ name’s Clarke,” Clarke says, “and I’d appreciate it if you’d call me it.”

Bellamy shrugs. “I like princess better.” He continues his careful prodding of her ankle for a little while longer before stating that it is only a sprain. “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything, tangling with Dax like that—he always was a mean one.”

Clarke picks up on the use of the past tense, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she focus on her basket, with her herbs strewn about the ground and starts picking them up, wincing through the pain of her ankle. “I really should be getting home, someone’s probably noticed that I’m gone by now.”

“Hold up, Princess,” Bellamy insists, putting one hand on the handle of her basket, so both are holding it. He uses the leverage to pull her closer. “I still have questions.”

“Well, I don’t feel like answering them,” Clarke replies, jerking her basket. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really should be going.”

“I can’t just let you go, Princess,” he replies, giving the basket between them a tug of his own. His is more forceful than hers and she finds herself stumbling forward. “We’re a secretive group, you see; we don’t go around telling people willy-nilly about healing herbs. Healers are very rare, I’m going to have to bring you with me.”

He thinks her a healer? “I’m not a healer,” she insists, “and you’re not taking me anywhere. Now, would you kindly leave me alone.”

Clarke has to keep reminding herself that, from his perspective, it’s a reasonable assumption to make. To werewolves, a healer is an anomaly that allows the werewolf to not have to turn as well as gives them an innate sense for herbs and healing, generally limited to that which affects werewolves. Witches, however, know that healers are simply the product of a witch (who has stopped practicing magic) mating with a werewolf where both supernatural genes are expressed—a dilution of both species. To a full blooded witch, being called merely a healer is insulting.

Bellamy shakes his head. “You have to be. Healers are the only ones with knowledge of herbs and they also don’t change on the full moon—I don’t remember the reason behind that, some kind of adaptive quality or whatever. The point is, I’ve found you out and we need you, so you’re gonna have to come back with me. And perhaps you can explain the light trick you did as well. I’ve never seen that before.”

Bellamy’s really starting to irritate her and if he weren’t hanging on so tightly to her whole reason for having gone through this ordeal, Clarke would have been gone long before this. Finally, she snaps and blurts out the truth, after all, this whole night has been one exposure-risk after another…might as well just get on with what fate obviously intends. “I’m not a damn healer, you idiot, I’m a witch!”

He seems confused by her confession, for he just kind of stares at her for a moment. Clarke uses this opportunity to yank her basket of herbs and things from his grasp.

"Witches don't exist!” Bellamy replies, seemingly coming to his senses.

Clarke snorts as she peeks inside the basket, checking for any damaged ingredients. Lucking out on that front, she closes the basket once more and looks right at him before rolling her eyes. “That is rich, coming from a werewolf.”

“Werewolves have been a part of the supernatural community for a long time, and there’s never been any mention of witches. I think you’re full of it.”

“I think you’re ignorant,” Clarke replies. “Of course witches haven’t gone public. The last time that was attempted, witches were burned at the stake! We’ve been sworn to secrecy for hundreds of years, and I’m currently risking my life telling you these things and you’re blowing it off like some sort of joke.” Clarke storms off, whispering a tracking spell to direct her home. For a moment, she thinks he isn’t going to follow her, but then she hears his loud, thumping footsteps running to catch up.

“I’m sorry about before,” he huffs. “It’s just, I think my sister’s a healer, but she doesn’t have any training or anyone to train with, so she’s floundering. I can’t tell anyone or they’ll take her away from me, but unless she hones her only valuable skill, she’ll be thought useless to the pack. They’ll throw her out. I can’t lose my sister, Clarke, and I thought you might be able to help, you know, because I thought you were one too.”

Clarke doesn’t actually have time to explain to him that he’s not completely wrong, but her heart does go out to his sister. (Historically, healers are rare and knowledge is passed by mouth from one to another. If there isn’t a healer to train the newest one, the werewolf pack tends to reject them as they’re then classified as other—not like werewolf enough to be one of them and not useful enough for it to be overlooked.)

“I can help her,” Clarke offers, fighting the urge to cringe. Why can’t she just be a normal witch—one who stays far, _far_ away from supernatural going-ons? Why must she involve herself in things that could very well get her killed?

The look Bellamy gives her when she says this, though, makes it worth it. He’s looking at her like she’s going to singlehandedly save his whole world. “Really? You can?”

Clarke nods. “Look, I promise I’ll explain everything later, but I actually do have to get back before people start thinking something’s happened to me. If they catch us together, it won’t be good. Meet me back here tomorrow night…and bring your sister.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “You still think these woods are safe, Princess?”

Clarke smiles. “Why wouldn’t I, when I’ve got you to protect me?”

Bellamy just chuckles as they part ways. “I’ll be here,” he calls back to her, “and I’ll keep you safe.”

Clarke resists the urge to smile. “I know,” she murmurs.

It’s very likely the history books are wrong, because obviously if it’s ever happened, the witch or warlock in question certainly wasn’t gonna tell anyone. But, on the off chance that they’re accurate, this makes Clarke’s decision a very big deal. Very dangerous too, if anyone finds out, but she trusts him.

It might prove to be the most reckless decision she’s ever made, but she’s not changing her mind. And, who knows, maybe her alliance with Bellamy and his sister will lead to witches finally letting go of their secrecy. Clarke certainly hopes so, because she doesn’t want to give up witchcraft to be with him, but she’s thinking she just might want to be with him too.

That, however, is a matter for another day.


End file.
